


Sleep

by ClaireScott



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Brothels, Disabled Character, F/M, Insomnia, Muteness, Pre-Series, Romance, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 08:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: Arthur finds some much needed sleep in the arms of a mute whore. A little bit of romance happens. One-shot, pre-series.





	Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

_June 1916, behind the front-line_

„Gemma? I need you in your tent. There’s a punter for you.” The madam said and Gemma looked up from the dress she mended.  
Normally, there were no men asking for her, but after a big battle the soldiers were greedy for a woman’s company. These were the days she actually worked as a whore, serving three or four men who were so greedy that they couldn’t wait until Rose or Mary or Janie were free for them. The rest of the time she mended their clothes, did the laundry and helped at the kitchen tent. She was the general dogsbody in this travelling brothel with about 35 whores, the madam and a cook.  
Gemma nodded, stood up and followed the madam outside.  
“Arthur, dear,” the madam said with so much false friendliness in her voice that Gemma shuddered, “this is Gemma. She’s mute, but she’ll do whatever you want.”  
The soldier nodded, agreeing in the deal he made and handed the madam the money. Payment in advance. Gemma knew it was less than the madam requested for the same time with all the others, but she was damaged goods: She couldn’t talk. And the soldiers loved talking, being comforted, being praised for their big cocks, being cheered while fucking themselves into oblivion. Sex with Gemma was something that happened in complete silence and there were not many soldiers who liked that. She gave the soldier, a man of medium size, thin, with a haggard face, a smile and gestured to the tent at the end of the row. He nodded and followed her in, waited until she closed the entrance.  
“I’m Arthur,” he then said. “Nice to meet you. So, uhm, do you understand me?”  
Gemma nodded, folded her hands over her chest and suggested a bow. Then she opened her dress (time is money, she heard the madam say in her head) and watched him watching her unpretentious strip, seeing his tongue darting out under his mustache, licking over his lips. Once naked she came closer, opening his shirt, his trousers, placing a kiss on his neck in the process.  
“No,” he said and shook his head, gripping her wrist before she could feel for his cock. “Lay down. Please.”  
She watched his face closely, the hard lines around his mouth, the hints of laugh lines around his eyes. He smelled good, his clothes were clean, a sign that he didn’t came right from the front-line, that he’d prepared himself before coming here. He looked exhausted, his age somehow indeterminable, but he surely was younger than he looked. The war made them all old.  
Gemma nodded and lay down, giving him an inviting smile. He got rid of shirt, shoes, trousers and socks and joined her on the camp bed, that, like every camp bed was way too small for two persons, but in a whore’s bed you only need space for one, as the second person is always on top of the other. Enough space to lie on your back, to kneel or to ride. Foreplay was mostly done standing, in front of the bed.  
Arthur squeezed his body beside hers, taking her in his arms, placing her head on his chest, covering their bodies with the thin blanket. Gemma heard his heart beating, slow and steady, no hint of arousal. They laid skin on skin, not a piece of paper could fit between them. It felt strange, unusual, but the customer is always right.  
“I ... I suffer from nightmares,” Arthur said lowly and cleared his throat. “I can barely sleep.”  
Gemma nodded at his chest and tried to get in his underpants. This was what he’d paid for, right? But once again he grabbed her wrist: “No. I don’t wanna fuck you. I’m here to ... to rest. Maybe I’m able to sleep when ... when I have a woman near me, just like back at home, when there was peace.”  
Gemma bit on her lip and nodded once more. This was something new for sure. A soldier who paid a small fortune to get some sleep? He must be really, really desperate.  
She pressed her body even closer to his, and her eyes shut as she thought about the time before the war, when she hadn’t been a whore, when she laid like this in the hayloft with Michael – may god rest his soul –, dreaming of marrying him, glad she’d met a man who doesn’t care about her being mute.  
Arthur’s breathing was even and steady, he didn’t seem to take notice of Lina’s overacted screams of lust and the grunting of the soldier she served in the tent next to them.  
“That feels so good,” Arthur whispered and shortly after he snored a little bit.  
Gemma smiled, breathing his scent, thought of Michael’s embrace and fell asleep only a few minutes after Arthur.  
Two hours later the madam woke them, because the time was up. Arthur thanked her politely, dressed and disappeared in the early evening. Gemma was distributed right after to another soldier, who fucked her relentlessly from behind while she thought of the best nap she had in years. 

From this day on, Arthur was her one and only regular. He came once a week, paying a little fortune for two hours of peaceful sleep. The other whores made fun of her when they took notice of this very special costumer, but they stopped when Janie said that Gemma was the most successful whore she’d ever met, earning money while simply napping.  
Gemma herself would’ve napped with Arthur for free, but that was of course nothing the madam allowed. He didn’t talk much, he watched her strip, got rid of his clothes and fell asleep after a few minutes of cuddling.  
After three months he missed his weekly visit and Gemma was soon in deep sorrow. In the next two weeks he didn’t visit too and so she went to the board where the fallen and wounded were announced. She didn’t know his last name, and felt a sting in her chest every time she found an “Arthur” on the lists. Every evening she thought of him, this taciturn, handsome, gentle man, thought of his embrace and how good and safe it felt to sleep in his arms. She prayed for him every day and was unbelievably relieved to see him another week down the road at the latrines. She smiled at him and he came over, hands in the pockets of his trousers.  
“Hello, Gemma,” he greeted and she bowed her head. “I ... I was at home. Holidays, two weeks. The notification was a surprise, I would’ve told you if I had known it.”  
She nodded and gave him a sigh of relief, her hands placed over her heart.  
“Did you miss me?” He sounded confused and insecure, a grown-up man who couldn’t believe that a whore could miss his miserable visits.  
She nodded enthusiastically and Arthur squinted, just as he thought about the possibility of getting played for a sucker. But then his facial expression became soft again and he nodded in the direction of the brothel tents: “I’d ... I’d love to visit you, but ... I gave most of my money to my family, so ... I’m kinda broke. I have to wait for the next pay packet before I’m able to visit you again.” He shrugged and gave her a half smile. “But I slept a lot at home, so ... it’s alright.”  
Gemma shook her head and fumbled something out of the pocket of her skirt, pulled him in a tight embrace and kissed him on the cheek, while placing a little bit of money in his pocket.  
“What the fuck?” Arthur whispered, pulling the coins she gave him out and counted them.  
Gemma pointed with her finger to the brothel.  
“You want me to come? And pay for you with your own money?” Arthur asked and pulled her a bit on the side, away from prying ears.  
She nodded and gave him a big smile.  
“You like my visits?”  
Once more a nod and he sighed: “Alright. I ... I feared you’d think I’m an idiot or something.”  
Gemma shook her head, blew him a kiss and waved goodbye. She really looked forward to a nap in his arms. It was the best thing that happened to her since August 4th, 1914. 

Their silent agreement started in December and contained a weekly meeting at the latrines where she gave him back her part of the money he’d paid for her, so that he’d only have to pay the commission for madam. It still felt wrong to take money for a nap, and she didn’t care about the money she lost to him. Madam was pleased and she was happy to have the best regular a whore could wish for.  
It was the first week of February 1917 when she woke up from her nap because she felt his hands wandering over her body. He cupped her breast, petting with his thumb over her nipple. His breath was hot at her ear, he moaned lowly.  
“Wanna fuck you, Gemma. Turn around.” He whispered and she did as he wished, pressing her back against his chest.  
He lifted her leg, placing it over his own thigh, making room for his fingers. She turned her head to look at him, noticed the burning desire in his eyes. She stuck her middle finger in her mouth and sucked at it, swirling with the tongue over the finger tip and gave him a questioning look.  
“No,” he whispered. “Want your pussy.”  
She sighed and closed her eyes a few seconds after he started to pet over her slit, from her clitoris to her entrance, back and forth, back and forth. He worked her fast and determined, he was an experienced man, she could tell from the way he touched her. He knew how to make a woman hot and bothered and dripping wet. She was panting when he let go of her, turned around and grabbed one of the condoms on the bedside table. Gemma didn’t move, she listened to his low cursing, the sound of the condom wrapping and the rustling of the sheets when he came closer again, repositioning her to fuck her comfortably. Maybe it was the fact that he spooned her that it felt so intimate, so close. Gemma blinked the tears away, thankful that he was behind her, that he didn’t look at her.  
Without any other word he entered her slowly, one arm around her upper body, his hand cupped her breast, the other hand over her vulva, slowly rubbing circles around her nub.  
“Time’s up in 10 minutes, Gem!” Madam called from outside the tent, but Arthur wasn’t in any hurry.  
He kept his thrusts slowly and steady, and Gemma turned her upper body as far as the cod would allow, just for a look at him. Their gazes locked and Arthur sped up a little, eliciting a moan from her.  
“Like it?” He whispered and she nodded.  
Her hand slid downwards, over his, and she guided him, showing him what she needed to find release. He was fast on the uptake and very soon she panted heavily, her pussy quivered and his thrusts got harder, more forceful, faster. Her little scream was nothing compared to Lina’s big “Oh-honey-you-fuck-me-so-good-yes-yes-yes-I’m-coming”-show, but it was a real one. Arthur had made her cum and she couldn’t remember one single soldier who had managed this before. Six or seven hard and fast thrusts later he grunted, a rumble deep out of his chest, and he stilled, pressing himself balls-deep into her. His eyes closed and he remained in her for another minute, waiting for his breathing going back to normal. Then he slid out, removing the condom without breaking eye contact to her and threw it on the floor. He closed the fly of his underpants and turned her around.  
“Kiss?” He asked and she nodded.  
She wanted to be kissed by him so badly and smiled, as he lowered his head, as his lips met hers.  
“Time’s up, Gemma!” Madam’s voice came from outside, but Arthur didn’t stop kissing her for another 30 seconds.  
“We’ve got marching orders. We’re going to Belgium on Saturday. I’m ... I’m gonna miss you, Gemma. I’m sorry I have to go. Thank you, for everything.” He whispered and left the cod, dressing in record speed.  
He was fully clothed in the moment Madam opened the entrance, indicating that the guest had to leave right now or to pay for another hour.  
“Gemma, Mr. Lamarr needs you in the kitchen tent,” she said and left instantly again, after Gemma nodded and sat up.  
Arthur fumbled in his jacket and placed two coins on the bedside table: “Is ... is this enough? For the fuck?”  
Gemma looked back and forth between the money and his face, blinked the tears away and nodded, a forced smile on her lips.  
“Bye, Gemma,” he said lowly and left the tent.  
She sat there for another minute, crying silently, stupid tears, bathing in miserable self-pity.  
‘You’re a whore, Gemma. What did you expect?’ She thought and got up to get dressed.  
She flinched as she felt warm liquid running down on her inner thighs, seconds after standing up. Gemma held her breath and bit on her lip, looking to the condom lying on the floor to her feet. She could see the tear in the material with the naked eye.

 

_Birmingham, November 1920_

The madam had sent her home, to Lancashire, once the pregnancy was visibly. But she didn’t make it back, she got stuck in Birmingham, and gave birth to a little boy, Angus, on October 15, 1917. She found work at a factory and fought hard every day to make everything best for him. Right now, in November 1920, with Angus 3 years old, she needed a second job. She had to buy some shoes for him and she was in desperate need of a coat for him. He’d grown so fast in the last months.  
Gemma tried to keep contact to many other mothers and the neighbours, so Angus could learn how to speak from the people surrounding him. He did very well and for a few weeks now he chattered and sang the whole day. He was a child of a very sunny disposition, sometimes hard to believe, considering the shy and reluctant temper of his mother and the earnestness and sadness of his father. Every time Gemma looked at her son she was able to see Arthur in him. He looked so similar to his father that it sometimes nearly broke her heart.  
She strolled around the streets with Angus at her hand, searching for a “Help needed” sign somewhere. After an hour she reached the imaginary border she’d set for herself: Every job behind Watery Lane was too far away to be paying. So, Watery Lane was the last street to look for a job in this direction. Tomorrow she’d go for a walk southwards from her home. And then she saw it: “Help needed.”  
She smiled, pointing to the door, gesturing Angus that they would go in there. She had no idea what kind of help they needed or what kind of business it was, but asking never hurt. Inside the office she found a woman all alone at a desk and she gave her a smile, fumbling for the piece of paper in her pocket. She handed it over the table, while Angus sang “Three blind mice”, which made her smile every time he sang it.  
The woman watched him closely, squinted, shook her head and looked to the piece of paper Gemma gave her.  
“My name is Gemma Barker. I’m mute, but I’m able to work very hard.”  
In her back, a door opened and heavy footsteps came nearer.  
“Pol?” A male voice asked and the woman at the desk looked up. “Where’s the paperwork Tommy gave you yesterday? Regarding Epsom?”  
Gemma froze. She knew this voice. As little as he’d used to talk, she would recognize his voice under thousands. She still dreamt of him, of the peace she’d found in his arms. Slowly, Gemma turned around and looked at him. Arthur. Beyond all doubt. He hadn’t change very much. Her hand searched for hold at the desk and she made a strangled noise that made him look at her. He stopped in the movement, looking at her with disbelief. Then he noticed the still singing Angus and his eyes got wide.  
“Who’s that?” He asked, his voice strained.  
“Her name is Gemma. She’s applying for the job. And the boy ... if I wouldn’t know better I’d say he’s a fruit of your loins, Arthur,” the woman named Polly answered. “He looks just like you when you were about three years old.”  
“Gemma ...,” Arthur whispered. “Oh, bloody hell!”  
He came closer, looking back and forth between her and Angus. After a few seconds he hunkered down and held out his hand for Angus. Her – their – little boy shook Arthur’s hand politely and said: “I’m Angus Barker. Nice to meet you.”  
“He talks ...,” Arthur said, looking up to Gemma.  
She nodded and gave him a smile.  
“Who’s that, mom?” Angus asked, looking up to Gemma.  
“I’m Arthur,” he introduced himself.  
“You two know each other, huh? And little Angus is ...?”  
Arthur nodded to Polly and focused on Angus again: “How old are you, son?”  
He held three fingers in the air and Gemma noticed the smile on Arthur’s face, watched his laugh lines crinkle for the first time in her presence.  
“February 17, right? So he was born in ... what? October?” Arthur said and Gemma nodded. “Do you still work for ...?”  
She shook her head and handed him the paper Polly had given her back.  
“Gemma Barker,” Arthur mumbled and looked up: “I’m Arthur Shelby. Welcome to the family, Gem and Angus.”  
He stood up and opened his arms, pulled Gemma in a tight embrace.  
“I need sleep,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking tired.”  
Gemma nodded at his chest and smiled. So was she. But from this day on, she would sleep like a stone, she felt it.


End file.
